


Children of the Barricade (Their Hearts are on the Flag)

by orphan_account



Series: Tumblr Prompts [4]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Darling Pan - Freeform, F/M, Les Misérables AU, OUAT - Freeform, Revolution, Sexual Tension, Tumblr Prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:47:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darling Pan Les Mis-ish AU. Peter is the leader of a youth revolution and Wendy is the only girl among his ranks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Children of the Barricade (Their Hearts are on the Flag)

 

The respectable young Mademoiselle Darling stands, awkwardly, upon the rickety floors of the café situated below the old bookshop overlooking a quaint, bustling marketplace. Officially, said marketplace is where she spends each and every Saturday morning with her governess, Madame Bell. She shops for lace gloves and new bonnets, perhaps a book or two to pass the time.

 _Officially,_ meaning  _according to my papa._

Wendy licks her lips, darting her gaze downwards for a moment as she contemplates the horror of her papa  _ever_ discovering what she actually spends her weekends doing. The eldest child of the reputable Darling family, spending her time with  _les Amis de l’ABC?_

Preposterous.

Baelfire nudges her with his elbow, shifting her attention. He’s the only one present in this little café who truly knows her – not Angela, the feisty  _petite gamine_ from the other side of  _la seine_  whom she becomes when she trades her fine gowns for skirts of a rougher nature, her prissy bourgeoisie lilt for a  _Parisienne_ accent. He grew up playing games with little Wendy Darling, and when he came back from studying medicine in Marseilles, found a like-minded soul – a young woman who was as fascinated with  _egalité_  as he.

And, about three weeks ago, her childhood friend had led her into the small café and introduced her to  _les Amis._

Wendy tucks a stray curl into her ragged bonnet, raising her eyes back to where Peter Pan – the marble man, the leader, the golden boy – struts back and forth ( _pacing,_ he calls it, but Angela only cocks an eyebrow at him) upon the space the other boys earlier cleared of chairs and tables. He holds one hand aloft, a book clutched in the other, gesturing wildly as he reads aloud. As per usual, he shoots her small glances filled with contempt at frequent intervals.

Wendy would blush and look away. Angela purses her lips and scowls in retaliation – and not one of the boys even  _considers_ telling her not to, that such a disagreeable expression will mar her pretty features. This is one of the many reasons she loves it here.

“Bourgeois society,” Monsieur Pan reads, “ought to have gone to the dogs long ago through sheer idleness…”

At  _idleness,_ the mere mention of lazy, he pauses and sends her a pointed glance. Felix, sitting in the row in front, twists round to grin unhelpfully. She directs her scowl to him, and his grin widens.

Since the moment she arrived – as Angela, bonnet in place and cheap gloves ratty – Monsieur Pan has treated her with a manner most unbecoming of his supposed ‘gentlemanly’ status. She knows he’s of the middle class, made so obvious by the state of his clothes and verbosity, and seems to hate his heritage. In this, perhaps, they have something in common; as the days go by, and the pages of books upon books written on the subject of  _egalité,_ Wendy begins to resent her own privilege more and more. The leader of  _les Amis_ , however, seems to forget that his own privilege paid for him to attend university, at which he learned all sorts of scholarly things and the very  _meaning_  of liberty. Without it, he would not be standing here.

At least Wendy constantly reminds herself – and Bae – that hating those for something that is outside their control, such as birthright, is wrong.

Above all, she hates hypocrisy. Of which, Monsieur Pan seems to have in abundance. Looking at him now, dressed in his crisp white shirt and green waistcoat, golden-brown hair artfully ruffled in the popular style, having the _audacity_ to call her lazy, however subtle – she cannot help but thin her mouth at him. It can only be because she is a woman who dares question his authority; Monsieur Pan seems to conveniently forget that the ‘fairer sex’ are part of his beloved  _egalité_ as well.

“For those of its members who work; acquire nothing, and those who acquire anything; do not work. The lower classes have nothing to lose but their chains, and a world to win.”

With this, the handsome student snaps his book shut, tucking it under his arm. Felix leads the others in applause; shouts of  _well read, monsieur!_ and  _encore, encore!_ pour, fervent, from all except Wendy, until Monsieur Pan waves them off. He smirks at them all, giving a slightly self-deprecating tip of his head.

She purses her lips and rolls her eyes. Baelfire, oblivious to her contempt, brushes his hand to her elbow and moves to leave.

“Outstanding,” he gushes, “simply outstanding –”

“Yes, yes.” Wendy says impatiently, motionless. “If he’d let anyone else have their say, I’m sure it  _would_ be outstanding.”

Her friend’s expression falls to a frown, but today she cannot bring herself to feel remorseful – quite frankly, she has had  _enough_ of Monsieur Pan and his uppity attitude. She pats down her skirts, one hand fluttering at the (uncomfortably low) neckline of the dress that Madame Bell allowed her to borrow. The gown – can it even be called that? – is a deep rouge colour, of rough-spun material, and if the crude shouts of men passing by on the streets are anything to go by, rather scandalous for a lady her age.

Bae always turns a shade quite similar to her dress when this happens, but Angela _la petite gamine_ is made of sterner stuff than most, thus simply brushes these occurrences off with a roguish toss of her curls, before marching into the café as if she owns it.

“Shall – shall we take our leave, then, Angela?”

Wendy shrugs. “Perhaps.  How do you find –”

She is interrupted, mid-sentence, by a loud and pointed cough that erupts from directly behind her. She spins, ungracefully, to glare at the lanky Monsieur Pan.

He greets her with his customary sneer. “With all due respect,  _monsieur,_ ” he addresses Baelfire, “I should like to have a word with Angela.”

“With all due respect,” Wendy mocks, moving so that she stands directly in front of him, “I am already engaged in conversation. And,  _with all due respect, monsieur,_ it would serve you well to ask me personally. I can speak for myself.”

The lingering members of  _les Amis_ do not look shocked. After all, this is not a rare occurrence; Angela and their leader have always clashed. Their heated debates can often last entire meetings, beginning with the spirited  _gamine_ interrupting Pan’s speeches to correct him (usually, it’s objections of “men  _and_ women, _monsieur_ ”) and ending with the irritated gentleman snapping at her to  _be quiet!_

Once – her third meeting – he’d decided to be smart and tell the small, bird-like creature who’d dared question him if she  _should like to educate our friends on the betterment of society, considering her obvious authority on the subject_ – only to be exiled to a seat in the corner to watch, embittered, as she clasped her little hands and launched into a lengthy discussion of suffrage.

That had shown  _him._

If it was odd that she knew her letters, Monsieur Pan never let on. Now, he smirks down at her anger, inclining his head – the picture of perfect gentlemanly _patronisation._

“Of course, mademoiselle. A word,  _sil vous plait?_ ”

Wendy nods. “I would be glad to.”

His mouth twists. “This way, if you would.” He directs her with one hand, the other reaching forward to gently curl about her elbow.

Baelfire makes a noise of indignation at the familiarity of the touch. “ _Monsieur_  –”

“Oh, calm down Baelfire.” Pan instructs, and the other boy falls silent. “It’s not as if it’s inappropriate. Lower class girls can be alone with gentlemen, can they not?”

The last three words are spoken in tandem with his fingers tightening on her elbow, his large palm swamping the crooked limb, cool and dry on her exposed skin. There are callouses on his hand that she hadn’t expected from a bourgeois student, and she wonders how he got them. Not work, surely? All he ever does is sit in this café, drinking with Felix and talking about the revolution. Hardly taxing, or worthy of blisters.

“Do I detect some disdain,  _monsieur?_ ” she asks, pursing her lips. “How very middle class of you.”

Pan flicks his gaze down to her, eyes flat and dark. “Come,” he hisses, jerking his head at Baelfire in a  _leave_ gesture, to which the boy obeys.

Wendy should object to being alone with him – there’s a dangerous hint to his careful control, a feeling she gets when on the receiving end of one of his scowls that tells her it’s not so much  _marble_ as glass – but that would disrupt her own façade, and her lineage would become apparent. It’s bad enough that she can’t always control the haughtiness that spills from her mouth to match his, the way she holds herself, without giving him more reason to believe she is not who she says she is.

Monsieur Pan directs her to a small, dimly-lit alcove of the café – a closet, really, lined with walls of books, to which there cannot be more than two metres of space – and pulls her inside. They stand, chest-to-chest (or, in keeping with their ridiculous height difference, chest-to-ribs), glaring at each other with their backs against the bookshelves. He twists, wedging his book between two others of similar colour and volume, then turns to look at her. His stare is strangely harried – an emotion she hasn’t seen on him before.

Wendy has seen him angry, irritated, amused, smug – but never  _bothered_ by something, not like this. Her gaze flicks over him, straying on where his shirt is rumpled and the crumbs that stick to the corner of his mouth.  _The marble man,_ he is called, for his unruffled demeanour. Now, she thinks, looking at him, he appears rather the opposite.

“Your hair is different.” Pan accuses after minutes of silence, reaching out suddenly to pinch a stray curl between his thumb and forefinger. He still hasn’t let go of her elbow. “Meeting a certain  _monsieur_ today, Angela?”

Biting her lip, Wendy realises that she forgot to tousle her curls this morning – they always look so  _attended to,_ so obviously styled, unless she tugs on them enough to make them ratty – having had little time to get ready, between waking late and barely ducking through the café door in time for the meeting to start. “No.” she grits out, raising her chin.

He sneers. “What are you so  _tarted up_  for, then?”

She can tell he means to be taunting, to be cruel – but there’s an  _injured_ edge to his tone, a wounded look in his eyes. She’d give it more thought, but his hypocrisy (again,  _again_ ) gives birth to a retort. “Oh, as if  _you_ can lecture me on this!” she snorts, unladylike, “We all know about your  _friendly visits_ to Mademoiselle Lily and her girls!”

She brings up the arm he grasps to push him away, but he simply slides his grip from elbow to wrist and settles his other hand on her shoulder. A gasp rattles through her teeth when he steps  _closer –_  if possible, in this cramped space – to loom over her. “Is this the nature of your visit – giving up your virtue to this _monsieur_ already, little bird?” He grins, a mockery of amusement. “Who is he?”

“I’m not meeting anyone – you horrid –”

“Baelfire, perhaps?” he demands, pressing her back against the shelves. “That weak little thing?”

Wendy can feel the line of his lithe frame on her, his warmth seeping through the rough-spun material of her dress. They are nose-to-nose now, with him bent to meet her gaze, so close she can barely tell who is who. Something strums low in her abdomen, her breath coming out in ragged little gasps and her bosom heaving.

“What has he promised you?”  Monsieur Pan presses his forehead to hers, entwining their fingers. The gesture is shockingly intimate, a complete paradox when compared to his usually cold and flighty behaviour. He wets his lips, moving his head away, down until she feels his breath on the flesh of her shoulder. “He won’t marry you, bird, not when he’s finished –”

“ _Marry_ me?” she hisses. “Bae and I are friends – nothing more – and I find your lack of faith in his honesty quite – this is not your business,  _monsieur –_ ”

She tries to push him away, but his lips land on her exposed throat and all rational thought seems to flee from her head.

Wendy  _sighs,_ sighs as if this was expected, the fingers of her right hand coming up to press at his ribs. He nuzzles at the underside of her jaw, tracing a path of burning kisses to her lips. They’re far from the chaste pecks she has shared with the potential suitors her father has paraded her before in the past – they are desperate, open-mouthed,  _hot._ They make her ache with something unfamiliar, a tension settling in that forbidden place between her legs.

He takes to her mouth with ease, prising it open with almost bruising force, swallowing each gasp and moan that tears itself from her lungs. She tears her hand away from his to tangle her fingers in his waistcoat, bringing him closer, whimpering when he grins against her lips. He forces a knee between her thighs, grasping fistfuls of her skirts for mobility, and forges a hand through her curls.

She wriggles, seeking friction, and then – suddenly – shame bursts in her chest, reddening her cheeks, and she presses the flat of her hands against him and _shoves._

Monsieur Pan stumbles backwards, off-kilter. His spine meets the wood of the shelves, and a short exclamation of pain cracks in his throat. He’s shocked; eyes wide, cheeks flushed, hair and clothes in disarray –  _my doing,_ Wendy thinks – but only for a moment. He moves towards her again a second later, smirking, claiming her lips in a kiss that’s just as biting as the first.

He pulls back, this time, after she’s left breathless. “There,” he says, toying with a curl, “isn’t that better?”

She’s about to snarl at him to  _get away_ but in that same moment, Felix comes skidding into the empty café, calling for Pan.

“ _Peter!_ ” the boy calls. “Peter!”

The leader in question sighs. He ducks his head to kiss her again, then almost as soon as his lips leave hers he is striding away, towards his loyal follower. Wendy is left leaning against the shelves, her curls no doubt riotous, the breath gone from her lungs and an unsatisfied ache beneath her skin.

She closes her eyes, briefly. Biting her lip, she glances to where Felix and Monsieur Pan are engaged in passionate discussion, heads and voices lowered, furtively gesturing to a ragged piece of paper in hand. She smooths down her skirts, passing a hand over her hair, and goes to join them.

At the sound of her shoes on rickety floors, the boys both look up. “Is everything alright,  _monsieurs_?” Wendy asks, and when her voice comes out breathless Pan smirks and Felix looks confused.

“General Lemarque is dead, Angela.”

Her mouth falls open. “That means –”

“ _Ouais._ Revolution.”

Wendy’s hand flutters at her chest. “When?”

Monsieur Pan’s eyes seems to burn a hole in her – they are fevered, passionate, hot-blooded in a way that she knows has little to do with her mouth. He gives a barely-contained grin, a half-slash on his narrow features.

“Soon.” 


End file.
